Somewhere in the middle of this loosely drawn, pencil-shined sketches, sits an instance in which Adrian Tomine, a fair figure in the cartoon industry, is at a book fair in Tokyo and is about to scribble, in palpable excitement, his first autograph of the day when he notices the book slipped under his fingers carrying the name – Daniel Clowes. Err.. he protests, awkwardly, then a little insistently, and then, earnestly by offering his book and saying – ‘Uh… <b>This</b> is my book. I can sign this for you.’ But to no avail. The reader, of Japanese origin, doesn’t understand the confusion and the usher dispatches that he must sign because well,… the reader is requesting for it!
This memoir – The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Cartoonist – from the reputed cartoonist and illustrator came and disarmed me. It said – across black-and-white panels with mini squares stuck criss-cross across them, carrying the bespectacled Tomine and his life’s (in) significant and significant others – here, look at me; I am not putting up a show. You shall get neither magic here nor its remaining dust from a decade back. I am tired and feeling insipid and experiencing doubts, and I thought this is my best way to deal with them all. Someone published it (or may be I did?) but I don’t remember. You too are free to forget what you read here.
With no objective to align my days with his’, I slid into the panels to have a look at Tomine’s life; his formative years – gliding on curiosity and shrivelling on abandonment, his youth – chasing creative possibilities and avoiding social conventions, his love – embracing without mask and pondering within dark, his later years – balancing family and questioning recognition. His candor, delivered with generous dollops of humor, shone the most. In a self-effacing, nonchalant manner, he narrates the ups and downs of a life well-lived, emphasizing the vital point of success not being a pre-requisite for happiness. Sometimes, its our little slips and blurts, our goof-ups and tomfoolery that land us in states of learning, friendship, peace and even love.
The minimalist vein that runs through all the illustrations that dot this book impart a quiet current to his life, sings to me. Like him, perhaps, I too have remained at a place where the deepest human connections have been forged in the most featherlight manner as no burdens of pretentions have bogged down their formation or growth.
Read this one for the art, for the laugh, for the lessons, for the journey.
SEEMITA DAS 